


A Dark and Quiet Place

by likeyouwannabeloved



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeyouwannabeloved/pseuds/likeyouwannabeloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a year of fighting, they were no closer to victory than they had been in the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dark and Quiet Place

**Author's Note:**

> This is only my second-ever fic, so please be kind! Reviews and concrit are encouraged (just don't be a dick). 
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr: withxfeathers. Come chat with me and send me photo sets and tell me things!

In the beginning, things had been simple.

Well, not simple; nothing is ever simple. But straightforward – at least, it had all seemed straightforward. Kill Voldemort, save the day, throw a party, live happily ever after.

It never works that way. It never could.

As it turned out, killing Voldemort required more than just a well-timed Avada Kedavra. There were horcruxes, Dumbledore said; seven horcruxes to be found and destroyed. This was evil on a scale so dark it had nearly fallen out of existence, but still, they kept faith. How difficult could it be? Find the horcruxes, destroy them all, kill Voldemort, etc. etc.

In hindsight, Hermione figured it was an unfortunate lack of pessimism that led to their downfall.

After a year of fighting, they were no closer to victory than they had been in the beginning. Dumbledore died before they found a single horcrux. Harry was forced into hiding; Ron had fallen to an unknown curse not long after. He was still alive but only just. After several months, few remained who believed he would survive.

Hermione learned there was freedom to be found in abandoned hope. It didn’t have to be messy, or psychotic. She was neither cold nor unfeeling; she simply didn’t see the logic in losing her mind because she was sad. And she _was_ \- some days, she could see the rest of her life stretching out before her, dark and interminable, and even the idea of moving or leaving her bed seemed impossible.

She did it anyway. What choice did she have?

She fought every day. She killed just as often. She visited Ron regularly at St. Mungos: once a week, she sat with him in his room and held his hand for hours, until her legs were numb from the stiff chair and her eyes were dry from the recycled air and her heart was as still and pale as the freckled boy beside her. She held his warm, dry hand and thought about how she’d never had a real friend before he and Harry had saved her from a monster on the loose.

 

* * *

 

 

Grimmauld Place is dark and quiet when Hermione returns from St. Mungos. She takes her time shedding sodden winter layers before winding slowly down the long hallway, up the stairs, and into the library. Draco Malfoy is there, alone, reading in front of the fire. He’s sitting on a faded red couch, one of his long legs crossed at the knee. The arm not holding his book is thrown carelessly over the back of the ancient sofa, his fingertips tapping out a tuneless rhythm. Hermione nods vaguely in his general direction as she flops gracelessly into a great ugly chair next to the old red couch and closes her eyes.

It’s no longer a surprise for Hermione to see him here among the Order. Shortly after the discovery of the Horcruxes, he and Narcissa turned up seeking sanctuary following Lucius’ murder at Voldemort’s hand. They’d remained prisoners for weeks, enduring endless questioning under Veritaserum; the Order assumed they’d been sent as spies, but the truth was less fantastic: they cared solely for survival, and the Order was their only hope. In the end, it was the ever-increasing body count which secured their release. They were skilled, vicious fighters; they were not squeamish, nor visibly sentimental. They killed old friends and associates with clean efficiency. What more could one ask for in a soldier of the light?

Hermione breathes in deeply as the fire crackles endlessly behind the grate. The library is quiet and rosy with the glow of the flames, and Hermione is almost able to imagine that she is back in Gryffindor tower: the air just slightly too chill, the couch much too stiff, but she pushes these thoughts aside and settles for several moments into the imagined comfort and familiarity of the room.

“Care to join me?” Hermione opens one eye and squints at Draco, who is holding out a mostly-full bottle of firewhisky. She takes the offered bottle and helps herself to a long swallow. Several minutes pass this way in comfortable silence - each of them drinking from the bottle before passing it back to the other - before Draco clears his throat.

“Are you going to tell me how the Weasel is doing, or are you waiting for me to ask?” He doesn’t look at her as he says this. His profile is bathed in light, the fire softening his sharp angles into something more rosy and open than Hermione is used to.

She doesn’t answer right away. She breathes deeply, in and then out. “He’s the same as last week. He’ll be the same next week.” She can feel his eyes on her but doesn’t meet his gaze as she takes another long swallow of the clear, dark liquid. She knows he’s waiting for her to go on but she can’t find it in herself to care. She’s tired. The firewhisky is strong. She feels pleasantly floaty and dulled at the edges; Ron and St. Mungo’s are drifting farther and farther away. She lets them.

“Not in the mood for conversation, then. Whoever thought we’d see the day?” There’s warmth in his voice that isn’t normally there. Hermione wonders vaguely how much he’d had to drink before she got there, then decides she doesn’t care. She only hopes it will help her shut him up.

Putting the bottle down on the worn carpet between them, Hermione pushes herself to her feet and walks to where Draco sits. He looks at up at her, eyebrow cocked, and tosses the book aside without marking his page. Slowly, she lowers herself into his lap, sinking a knee down into the soft red fabric of the cushions on either side of his long legs. She leans in, dragging her hands up his chest as she slides the tip of her nose along the line of his jaw. “Shut the fuck up, Malfoy.” She breathes in deeply and whispers in his ear. “Ward the door.”

He doesn’t reach for his wand. He watches her, unblinking, his gaze as steady and pale as the moon. She pulls back slightly and reaches for the hem of her jumper, pulling it over her head and dropping it on the floor behind them. She’s not wearing a shirt underneath. Her bra is a simple cotton thing – muggle – but it’s small and black and the tops of her breasts swell just slightly above the cups. Draco’s breath comes a bit faster though his expression never changes. Her eyes are locked on his as she runs her palms slowly up the soft skin of her stomach, under and then over her breasts. Her nipples tighten and rub against the soft black fabric. She doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until she exhales in a rush at the jolt of pleasure that shoots down between her legs.

It’s been several weeks since they last met like this, and there hasn’t been anyone else in between. There never is. She wonders sometimes if there’s anyone else for him.

Reaching back slowly, she unhooks her bra with more care than is necessary, one clasp at a time. A tiny spark flares in her chest when Draco’s eyes finally leave hers and dart down to the newly exposed skin. He’s fully hard now, the outline of his cock plainly visible through the soft wool of his trousers. Hermione resists the urge to drag her fingernails over the bulge, choosing instead to scrape them gently across the tight rosy-brown peaks of her nipples. The friction is not quite enough. She whimpers, her eyelids fluttering shut against her will, and she forces them open. She wants to watch Draco watch her. The calm, clear gaze from minutes ago is gone, and in its place is something darker. It feels dangerous, though she knows she has nothing to fear from Draco Malfoy. Inside this room or out, she trusts him completely.

His fingers are digging into the skin at her hips now, and she squirms slightly in his lap to relieve some of the ache where her knickers have gone damp. He exhales at the movement, and she does it again, this time harder. She’s trailing her fingers along the chilled skin of her torso but it’s not enough. Slowly, grinding down in a quiet rhythm in his lap, she pinches both nipples hard and then holds, tugging them slightly after several seconds. A quiet moan escapes at the ache. It feels good, and so little ever does anymore. She takes the time to enjoy it.

“Fuck.” He breathes out. She’s not sure if she’s meant to hear it. Where she thought she would feel triumph, she feels only desire.

Her hands leave her breasts in order to reach down and unbutton the fly of her jeans. The drag of her zipper is loud in the silence. With one hand, she slides her fingers into her knickers to find they are soaked; she places her other palm flat against his chest to steady herself as the first brush of her fingertips against her clit nearly unbalances her. She barely registers the fierce drum of his heart beneath her hand. She’s more turned on than she’d expected to be, and she forces her fingers to slow down, to move in slow circles around but not quite touching her aching clit.

Draco is breathing heavily, his eyes dark and cheeks flushed as she rubs herself on her fingers in his lap. She loves this part best. Draco is beautiful: desperately hard, struggling to be still, stubbornly refusing to break first. His eyes dart between her face, her chest, and her hand working steadily in her knickers. His lips are red and swollen from being dragged between his teeth, and she wants so badly to lean forward and press her own against them. It would be so easy. Nothing feels better than moaning into his mouth as he holds her tight against his chest while she comes apart. Nothing except knowing she drove him to do it first.

Too soon, she knows she’s going to come if she doesn’t stop. She pauses for a moment, breathing hard, before slowly pulling her hand out of her pants and bringing her fingers to her lips. Her eyes don’t leave his as she sucks the slim digits, one by one. Draco groans loudly and curses, yanking her hand out of her mouth, crushing her against his chest as their mouths finally meet. The kiss is desperate and wet, more tongue and hot breath and rough moans than anything else. Hermione wants to touch him everywhere at once. She drags her nails roughly down his sides and he swears, grinding his erection into her pelvis, and she remembers that he’s still fully clothed and hasn’t yet been touched.

“Pants – _fuck_ – off. Now.” Hermione whines as Draco bites roughly at her neck, desperately trying to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his shirt at once. As soon as his flies are down, she reaches into his pants and clasps her hand around his leaking erection. He’s hard and hot and so vital that for a moment she has a mad fear that she’s going to cry. Then his mouth is on her, his sharp teeth worrying her nipple just hard enough to hurt, and all thoughts of tears are forgotten.

They stay like that for less than a minute: Hermione working her hand up and down his length, savoring the feel of his foreskin stretching and sliding down to expose the leaking tip of his cock, as Draco sucks and licks and squeezes the aching tips of her breasts. He’s thrusting into her hand, his fingers at her waist holding her to him so firmly that she knows she’ll have bruises to heal in the morning. After one final twist of her hand, Draco pulls away from her chest with a groan and removes her hand from his cock. His mouth is wet and pink, his hair ridiculously mussed.

“If you don’t stop that, this is going to be over a lot quicker than I’d like.” His fingers tighten on her skin as his prick twitches against his bare stomach. He’s so pretty it hurts.

Hermione trails a wet fingertip along the line of his jaw. “What would you like?”

Wrapping his arm around her waist, he pulls her flush against his torso and scoots to the edge of the couch before smoothly maneuvering them to the floor. Almost as an afterthought, he grabs his wand and throws locking and silencing spells at the door before looking down to where she is spread out beneath him.

Slowly, his eyes locked on her own, he peels her pants and knickers down her legs by inches before tossing them aside. She lets her knees fall open around him as he quickly removes his own pants and trousers, and where she thinks she ought to feel self-conscious she feels only power. She’s completely exposed to him like this. Draco Malfoy, her childhood enemy, the massive prat who made her life hell for years, is looking at her with a predatory hunger she’s never seen mirrored in anyone else’s eyes. She feels in these moments she could do absolutely anything – that her body and her world and her life are one boundless, wide-open possibility. She knows it should scare her, that feeling, but it doesn’t.

Draco doesn’t make a move immediately, even after he’s fully naked and hard above her. He’s running his palms up and down her thighs, massaging her sweaty flesh with his thumbs as he rubs up and down, again and again. There’s something flickering in his shadow-lined face that she can’t identify. Slowly, she reaches up a hand and brushes at the sweaty hair stuck to his forehead. He leans into the touch for a moment before pressing a quick kiss to her palm and bending down to take a nipple between his teeth. She groans, knowing there is no longer the danger of being heard or interrupted, and holds the back of his head to her skin. She reaches down to touch herself and he bats her hand away with a grunt. She huffs a smile, just a slight tug at the corner of her lips, and arches up into his mouth.

The wet heat of his lips and tongue on her skin combined with the heat from the fire and the alcohol they’d shared earlier has left her flushed and swollen and nearly panting. Draco is taking his time, leaving a molten trail of kisses and licks in his wake, touching her everywhere _but_ her aching cunt.

“Malfoy.” Tomorrow, she will be embarrassed by how needy she sounds.

“Mmm?” He lifts his head from where he’s licking swirling patterns around and around the insides of her thighs.

“Come here.” She half sits up in an attempt to pull him into position above her, but he’s solid and strong and apparently a lot more sober than she is because he doesn’t move even a single inch.

“I’m quite alright down here, I think.” He goes back to his work, this time much closer but still not touching her where she is wet and aching.

She whines. “Draco.”

He looks up at her then. There isn’t even the hint of a smile on his lips. “Say it, Hermione.”

She covers her face in both hands and tries to shut her legs on him. She’s going to kill him. She’s going to grab her wand and hex him and climb on top of him and –

She cries out as strong hands part her legs and his tongue swipes hard, just once, over her clit. “Oh my god.” His licks her again, then again. She’s writhing now, moaning unintelligibly into her hands as he licks firm, broad strokes against her aching flesh, and she’s so close.

He stops.

“Say it, Hermione, or I’m stopping and we’re done.” He’s above her now, looking down into her eyes with an expression so fierce she almost forgets where they are and what they’re doing. It’s a look she’s familiar with, but she doesn’t understand it in this moment. The alcohol and the fire and the ache he’s built up inside her make it impossible to think.

“ _Please,_ Draco.” It comes out as a broken whisper. He doesn’t move, and Hermione wonders desperately if she’s misunderstood somehow. She’d say anything if it meant he’d keep going. He must know she would. He must –

“Hermione.” Her breath shudders at the sound of her name on his lips. He’s looking at her and for some reason her chest feels tight, as though someone is sitting on her lungs and her ribs and her heart. She can’t _breathe_ like this. He’s touching her face and she has to close her eyes, then. It’s as though she’s staring at the sun. She thinks she might go blind or mad or start crying and never stop.

She feels his palm against her cheek, a slight brush of his thumb across her tender skin before his long fingers slide into her hair. He reaches down with his other hand to gently line them up, and then he’s finally pushing inside her. She wraps her legs around his waist tight enough that she thinks he won’t have any room to move, but he does. He starts up a steady rhythm, slow and deep, reaching all of the places inside of her that only he has ever touched. She’s opened her eyes now and she can’t stop staring at his beautiful face: sweat-messy, cheeks flushed, mouth wet and swollen red.

She’s never seen anything more beautiful. Never, not ever.

His rhythm picks up just slightly and her breath hitches as he hits the spot that drives her crazy. He does it again, harder, and she throws her head back and cries out as her arms come up to grab his shoulders and pull him nearly flat against her. He’s fucking her faster and so hard now that she finally, finally feels her orgasm start to build. She reaches down to rub frantically at her clit as their bodies smack wetly in the red glow of the firelight. Draco is panting as he thrusts, groaning each time she squeezes tight on his cock, and his hand is still in her hair and his face is buried in her neck and –  

“Draco, I – “ The combination of her frantic fingers and his relentless thrusts force her over the edge with a soundless cry. Draco tenses, groans loudly into her sticky humid skin, and pulses out his own release.

It is several long minutes before either of them move. Slowly, Draco lifts his head from where it has remained pressed into Hermione’s neck and rolls onto his side. She follows his warmth with a half-drowsy, half-drunken lack of grace, throwing an arm and leg over his torso and burrowing her head into his chest. She thinks she feels him freeze for a moment before muttering a quiet _accio_ and throwing the blanket that flew into his hand over their rapidly cooling bodies.

The fire and their breathing are loud now in the silence. She is drifting, not quite asleep but not wholly awake.

“We can’t stay here.” There’s nothing in his tone to indicate he has any feelings whatsoever about being discovered sleeping naked in the library with Hermione Granger.

Hermione is quiet for several long moments. “I’m not sharing my bedroom with anyone at the moment.”

He stops breathing for one, two, three beats. “How did you manage that?” He is twisting one lone curl around and around a single finger.

Hermione lifts her head from where it’s cradled on his chest to look him in the eyes. “Padma died on our mission last week. I thought you knew.”

He blinks, once, before tearing his gaze away from hers to stare at the paint peeling away from the ceiling. “I didn’t.” A breath. “I’m sorry.”

She brings her head back down to lie on his chest. They don’t speak for several minutes. Draco is still playing idly with her hair. Hermione knows she will have to get up soon or else risk discovery – most likely sooner rather than later – but the thought of spending another night sleeping alone with her ghosts is too much. She is not dead. She is alive, if only just. She can take comfort when it’s offered. She wants to.

She stands, leaving the blanket behind. “Let’s go to bed.”

They leave the fire burning as they head to her room.


End file.
